


Long Journey Home

by runicmagitek



Category: Kentucky Route Zero (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Child Abandonment, Coming of Age, Families of Choice, Gen, Imagination, Implied/Referenced miscarriage, Magical Realism, Missing Scene, Poverty, Pre-Canon, Sad with a Happy Ending, Treat, because canon said so, being a kid is tough, brief bullying, but hey having a bird for a brother is a sweet deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26448145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runicmagitek/pseuds/runicmagitek
Summary: “You know, do something amazing. The kind they write books about. Papa keeps saying the best life experience is learning it first-hand… or something like that. I like the books. They’re fun, but… whenever I’m done reading, it’s like I’m stuck between where I was and where I am.” He glanced at Julian. “You know what I mean?”Julian chirped and puffed up his chest feathers.“I knew you would.”Between missed homework assignments and quiet dinners, Ezra finds ways to escape the realities he doesn't quite understand. But whatever happens, at least he'll always have Julian.
Relationships: Ezra & Julian
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4
Collections: Press Start VI





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rynling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynling/gifts).



Off-white lights blinked, circling the meager pine tree in the living room. The ornaments—fashioned from construction paper cutouts and decorated clothespins and popsicle sticks—dazzled in the occasional illumination. They danced up the tree. A race of sorts, for sure. And the lights were snowflakes guiding the way.

If only it would snow outside. Maybe warrant a snow day or two. The closest Ezra came to winter now— _real_ winter—was in books, the same ones he marveled in the school’s library, unsure why he couldn’t take them all home. He’d bring them back. Eventually. His teachers insisted otherwise, just as they insisted he stirred chaos with his nonsensical prattle instead of asking relevant questions. What if it was relevant to _him_?

Without a book to occupy his mind, he removed the ornaments from the trees—gently, as always. He spoke to the images that moved over the reindeer and nutcracker, like spirits rousing to life. They circled the tree, racing to the peak and daring to finish first. Ezra smiled and cheered.

A voice shot through the room and the spirits faded. He winced, his name spoken through clenched teeth. Feet stomped towards him.

“What did I tell you about playing with the tree?” his mother scolded him.

“But I—”

She pried the ornaments from his hands. Exasperation laced the long breath leaving her, yet her shoulders tensed until she trembled. “Ezra, honey,” she managed to say while returning the ornaments to the appropriate branches, “they’re not toys.”

He glanced at his feet. “I like them, though.”

“You could damage them.”

“But I won’t! I’ll be careful and—”

“It’s all we got, alright? I can’t afford to replace them.” A pause, then, “Or anything.”

Ezra dared to look up. She stared elsewhere while rubbing her temple. A worry he didn’t comprehend tugged at her features.

“I can make more,” Ezra insisted.

Her lips quirked into a brief smile. “Why don’t you get ready for bed, honey. Then Mama can tell you a story.”

Few words convinced Ezra to behave. He slaved over the sink to brush his teeth, comb his hair, and even wash behind his ears. Once he changed into his favorite pajamas—worn fleece fabric filled with cartoon sheep—Ezra shuffled to the living room.

He paused halfway there, at the open door to his former bedroom. New paint replaced a corner, the rest covered in the teddy bear wallpaper he grew up with. His mother rifled through a stack of cardboard boxes and splayed out trinkets from Ezra’s infancy.

“Mama?” he called. “Am I going to get a brother or sister?”

She flinched ever-so-slightly at his voice. Bringing a loose fist up to rub her eyes, she spoke, “I don’t know yet, honey.”

Ezra furrowed his brow. Was her voice shaking? Why?

“Maybe in a few more months,” she continued. “But right now, it could be either-or.”

“Oh. Could you tell the storks to bring a baby brother? I’d like that.”

She fashioned him a look he recognized in every teacher who refused to answer his questions, the ones insistent on staying _relevant_. As if nothing else mattered. But then his mother parted her lips and her face softened.

She smiled and tears rolled off her chin. “Yeah. I think I can do that for you. Now, how about that bedtime story?”

Whatever questions bubbled within Ezra’s mind vanished. He squealed and ran to the living room. By the time his mother caught up, he snuggled into the sofa with his pillow and blankets ready.

She sat at the edge and tucked him in proper. Smoothing a hand over his hair, she spoke of a baby bird who lost his way from his family. The chick explored the lush nature and met various creatures who misguided him. For every peril the bird faced, the images shifted and blurred over his mother until they painted a picture unlike the corner of the world he called home. In time, the bird reunited with his family, the parents swooping in to save their baby from a predator.

“‘We’ve been looking all over for you,’ said the mama bird—” And she cupped Ezra’s cheek for emphasis. “—‘Now let’s go home and keep you safe.’ And so the baby bird went onto the mama bird’s back and they flew home. The baby bird had a busy day, but he was happy to be home, where it was safe and warm.”

The vibrant spirits faded. His mother kissed his forehead and wished him a goodnight. Weight shifted off the sofa until it was only Ezra and the sparse lights mimicking snow.

Sleep didn’t claim him. Not after the lovely story nor when the front door creaked. Even then, Ezra squeezed his eyes shut as his father came home from yet another double shift. Feet dragged across the linoleum floor. Strained exhales scattered like dead leaves falling to the earth. Maybe his father could be home for dinner during winter break. And they could play games and cook chili together and watch those old cartoon tapes from when he was younger. Ezra liked that idea, just as much as the images still dancing in the tree.

He didn’t like the hushed voices from the kitchen or the quiet sobs that followed. He tried to think of the little bird sleeping soundly in his nest with his family. Sometimes that was all he needed to doze off.

* * *

The front door ceased to open while Ezra curled into the sofa and hoped for dreams. One night he waited, hoping it would reveal his father. He passed out, sprawled across the misshapen cushions before he ever found the truth. Maybe something stole his father and prevented him from coming home, but tiny shifts in the house revealed his presence: less milk in the carton, more dirt embedded into the doormat, fresh tire tracks in the driveway, and the hint of instant coffee marking the air every morning.

Out of nowhere, seemingly, it all stopped. Perhaps the illusion shattered and whatever creatures held his father captive freed him. Ezra lauded the man he barely saw. He was there when Ezra awoke, when he returned from school, when he ate his dinner, and when he headed to bed. Oh, the time they could recover, now that he was home.

Except his father spent it scouring daily newspapers, making phone calls no one answered, and sitting on the sofa, head heavy in his hands, and ignoring the fuzzy feed of sports highlights.

“Papa?” Ezra always tried when his father stared elsewhere with glossy eyes. “Papa, can we play outside together?” Nothing. “Papa—” Ezra tugged on his jeans, the only good pair his father owned. “—can we—”

Maybe it would have been easier if his father snapped, if he unraveled with hateful screams and swatted him away, like the mean parents in his books. At least Ezra knew how to react. But the lack of response—dead eyes staring nowhere important—froze him.

It wasn’t until he released the stiff denim and turned away that a voice cracked to life—or at least stirred from its tomb. “Not now, Ezra. Papa’s busy.”

Busy doing what, though? Ezra thought to ask multiple times, only to choke on the silence while dinner was served, while homework sat forgotten in his backpack, while the decorated tree tilted and bore no presents, while his mother forgot to tell bedtime stories.

While Ezra woke up to no one home.

He remembered the baby bird. His parents would return. They had to. Why would they forget him?

Until they returned, Ezra contemplated playing with the ornaments again. Something to pass the time. Fingertips hovered over an intricate paper snowflake inlaid with glue and glitter. Echoes of his mother’s lectures swirled in his head. Releasing a trembling breath, Ezra stepped away.

No images visited him despite his isolation. Not even memories of his favorite stories bloomed in the dim, quiet house.

Locks unbolted. Ezra gasped and rushed for the front door. Neither his mother nor father spoke a word as they entered. They didn’t shrug off their coats or kick off their shoes. Ezra lingered behind as his father tucked his mother into bed.

Maybe there would be a bedtime story. Ezra sat outside in hopes to hear one. All he found were tears well past his bedtime. No one scolded him for staying up late.

Just as his mother never tore into the living room to scold Ezra while he crushed one of the popsicle stick ornaments.

He wished she had.

* * *

The tree and its ornaments stayed in the living room well past winter. As did the endless pans of hot brown casserole Ezra consumed day after day after day. He shoved his face into library books, ignoring everything that ignored him, but the books disappeared along with his library card. Something about his grades and his parents ignoring the principal’s calls or letters. The latter he could swipe from the mailbox before anyone noticed. When the landline rang, he held his breath, but neither parent bothered to look at it, let alone answer.

Maybe it was better that way. Not that anything _was_ better. All he longed for was his parents to be home and to eat dinner with them. Together.

They did, yet they didn’t.

Spring rolled in once the school ceased writing and calling. And the tree, long dead, still stood in the living room corner. Half the ornaments dangled from the branches, the remainder stowed in a plastic bin beside the endless cardboard boxes containing Ezra’s baby trinkets. Unwashed casserole dishes with burnt cheese and grease caked on overflowed in the sink. Paper plates and utensils stuffed the neighboring counter and trash can. Ezra stood in the kitchen, trying to see the images of the remaining ornaments in the distance when his mother called for him.

For what felt like the first time in years.

“Ezra, honey? Your bed is all set up again. You got your room back now.”

The silence persisted and Ezra wandered to find his mother sitting on his bed. The furniture and accessories were his—coated in various shades of blue, both faded and mismatched—but it didn’t ease the barren atmosphere as he entered.

“Oh, there you are.” His mother perked up, sniffling a bit before standing and smoothing the bedsheets. “Much better than a sofa, don’t you think?”

Ezra gazed at the shag carpet.

“What’s the matter, honey?” She bent down to catch his eyes. “Do you not like it?”

“Where will the baby sleep?”

At least he saw her face when he asked—the flat line of her lips, the empty gaze staring through him, the color draining from her otherwise rosy complexion. A single glance to convey the unspoken words between them, but the details were lost on a child.

“Ezra, we’ve gone over this already,” she eventually said.

Had they?

He never fell asleep that night, a stranger in his bed. Moonlight flooded the room. The occasional car drove by, the headlights flashing across the walls. Ezra stared at the corner where his dresser and bookshelf were. Maybe he could shove those to the side, convince his father he didn’t need them anymore and bring them to that place where they bought them—where people discarded their memories for others to cherish. Someone else could love them like he had.

And it would be enough for the baby and his mother wouldn’t need to worry and they would all be happy and have dinner together and forget the times they lost the will to smile.

He drifted to sleep, where he dreamed of a future full of laughter and warm meals and stuffed bookshelves reaching the ceiling and late nights counting the stars and the wishes he’d make on every last one.

Come morning, he woke to a songbird’s morning tune. And he found the nest it crafted on his windowsill.

* * *

“They’re eagle eggs, Mama!”

She paid no attention to his excitement while picking laundry off the floor. “Eagles don’t come around here, honey.”

He pouted and reexamined the eggs. Images of tiny birds circled the unhatched eggs; he recognized the patterns in their wings, the distinct feathers which separated them from their kin. “But these are _definitely_ eagle eggs.” Another pause and he groaned. “Mama, come look!”

“Ezra, honey,” she said, “we’re going to be late for school if—”

“ _Please_?!”

Behind him, his mother stood with a wicker laundry basket perched on one hip. Hair escaped her loose bun while she wiped sweat from her brow. “Just this once,” she sighed out, walking to the window, “and then you need to change clothes and get your backpack and—”

Bending at the hip, she examined the nest tucked into the flower box at the windowsill. It marked the first year she hadn’t refilled the soil and planted annuals along his window. Something about adding some color and life to the otherwise drab corner. Now a nest comprised of twigs, leaves, and grass sat there with a few eggs: pale, marbled blue with white speckles like the stars.

Surely she saw the eagle spirits circling the nest, one for each egg.

Instead, she shook her head and he swore she rolled her eyes before turning away. “Ezra, those aren’t eagle eggs; they must be robin eggs or maybe a bluebird’s.”

“No they aren’t!” he said as she exited his room. “Robins and bluebirds don’t have eggs _exactly_ like that!” At least the books he scanned in the library didn’t say so. “Mama, I’m telling you, they’re—”

“And _I_ _’m_ telling you that if you’re not at the front door dressed and packed in ten minutes, I’m not writing you another letter explaining why you missed school again.”

Ezra had two minutes to spare once his mother collected her purse and keys. He spent the car ride looking for eagles in the clouds and wondered if they would talk to him throughout class and lunch and recess. He doodled feathers and eggs and wings instead of taking notes on percentages and fractions. He dreamed of a life where homework and chores didn’t matter—only the expansive sky and the wind filling his wings.

* * *

“Ezra, don’t touch it!”

The wind swept away the abrupt cry, a fading echo before Ezra ever considered its meaning along with his actions. He darted around the house, where the paint peeled and chipped the most, to the alcove that was his bedroom window.

Where a baby bird sat on the ground, chirping more than it dared to breathe.

A hand snatched his wrist and flung him around before he scooped up the bird.

“What did I just tell you?!” his mother demanded, frustration and anxiety lining her tired features.

“He fell, Mama! I need to help him back into the nest.”

“You can’t do that, Ezra.”

“But he can’t fly yet!”

“And his parents might not accept him if _you_ touch him and put him back.”

He froze. Nothing in the books he devoured spoke of that. Page after page detailed the intricacies of each bird’s diet and what their songs meant and how their wings curved. Helping was good, right? His father always insisted Ezra helped their elderly neighbor carry groceries into her house and his mother asked Ezra to help wash the dishes and cut store-bought cookie dough. They smiled when he helped—rare instances since winter.

“I… I just,” Ezra began, but the words swelled in his throat and dared to choke him.

His mother softened her grip, yet her palms sat heavily on his shoulders. “You’ll get your scent on the poor thing and the mama and papa birds won’t recognize their own baby.”

“That’s not true.”

“Honey—”

“How do _you_ know?!”

“Mamas just know these things, okay? Now come on back inside and—”

“So I’m supposed to leave him there? Julian won’t know his way back.”

She tilted her head and squinted. “Who?”

“The bird. He’s Julian. He hatched the same day you marked on the calendar. It’s what you were going to call my brother.”

A reply didn’t surface immediately and Ezra jerked free. She knelt there, stunned and crestfallen. Tears formed in her eyes. Even when his father called for them by the meager front yard, she stared at Ezra while tears rolled down her cheeks and into her lap.

He didn’t rescue Julian, nor did he eat his bologna sandwich or potato salad once inside. He sat in the living room while his parents spoke down the hall about adult things—things he never wanted to accept along with growing up. He waited until the light turned off from his parents’ bedroom deep into the night before sneaking out the front door.

The stars outlined his path, but nothing sprawled across the ground outside his bedroom window. No feathers, no cheeps, no nest.

He imagined Julian went on an adventure, exploring the tall grass and wildflowers. Maybe he went as far as the ranch a few miles down. Or maybe he visited the diner his father sometimes treated him to. No matter what his adventure entailed, Ezra hoped Julian enjoyed himself and found his way home eventually. Wherever home was.

In the hours before dawn, a muted whistle soared over the house. Once golden rays crept into the room and across Ezra’s face, he found a large tail feather on his chest.

And a juvenile bald eagle perched on the bedpost.


	2. Chapter 2

Children unzipped their backpacks to reveal items for show-and-tell. Most brought toys—pristine collectibles Ezra never dreamed to own in his home—though others coveted family heirlooms, ranging from photo albums to recipe holders to pickling pots. As for Ezra, he sat at his desk, clutching his backpack in his lap while each student presented their item.

He used to hate it—the break in their studies to flaunt who had the best material possessions to gossip about come lunchtime. He longed for the quizzes on earth science and astronomy and storytime featuring a book not kept in the library. But he also never had much to share.

Not until now.

The teacher called his name. As Ezra approached the front, whispers swept through the class. He imagined they were curious as to what he brought in his backpack, yet when he opened it to retrieve a single feather, barely contained within, no one gasped with delight.

“I have a brother named Julian,” Ezra began in the usual, monotonous timbre every child spoke in when reciting information, “and he is a bald eagle.”

Several children covered their mouths. More whispers, more sharp eyes scanning him.

“He hatched on my windowsill,” Ezra continued, twirling the feather. “He fell from his nest and I saved him and now he’s living with me. He likes playing fetch and eating gummy worms and taking long flights over that—”

“How can your brother be a _bird_?” A girl up front questioned him—one of the popular kids with her straight, blonde hair and matching designer Barbie dolls. “That’s stupid.”

Giggles morphed into cackles. No one attempted to hide their toothy grins.

“Don’t call people stupid, Suzie,” the teacher piped up. “Everyone lives a different life. Maybe if you listen to what Ezra has to say, then you’ll learn something.”

She rolled her eyes. “I _know_ your mama didn’t lay and hatch some eggs. _My_ mama told me where babies come from and it’s _not_ like that.”

“He’s my brother,” Ezra replied, “because he is. We’re there for each other. That’s all that matters.”

“Alright, fine, but if that’s so, then why not bring him in? That could be a turkey feather.”

Another kid snorted. “Only a turkey would be friends with him.”

“I couldn’t bring him in,” Ezra spoke over the mocking voices. “He wouldn’t fit in my bag.”

“Oh, okay. _Sure_.”

Before the teacher stood to calm the classroom, before anyone cracked another joke, a sharp _clink-clink_ sounded from the window.

Silence settled in the room. Heads turned and mouths dropped. Ezra jumped to his feet, smiling while he waved and pointed at the massive bald eagle perched outside, occasionally tapping the glass with his beak.

“See? There he is—that’s Julian!”

* * *

He sat outside the principal’s office for what felt like forever. His classmate’s gleeful cries echoed in his head, each one asking to touch Julian, to ride him, to play with him, to do anything to earn a story to share. Ezra hoped for a quiet recess, collecting pebbles to skip at the lake come Saturday. Julian would have perched in a tree, like he always did, and kept watch on Ezra and the playground. He liked it when no one else but himself could see Julian; he didn’t come to that conclusion until his teacher dragged him away from the cacophony.

When the principal finally welcomed Ezra into the office, she expressed more concern about Julian’s safety than the absurdities his classmates slung at him. “A school playground is no place for someone like Julian,” she explained. “A bird needs room to stretch his wings.”

“But he’s my brother,” Ezra pleaded.

“And don’t you want your brother safe? I’d hate to see one of the children hurt him.”

“They can’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“They can’t hurt Julian. I won’t let them.”

She exhaled. “I see.”

Whatever else she had to say, she saved it for a written note for his parents. She watched Ezra place it in his backpack and made him promise to both deliver it and keep Julian off school grounds. By then, the final hour of the school day rolled in. Students sat at their desks, cracked open new pages in their notebooks, and gripped their favorite pencils.

As for Ezra, he abandoned the classroom with the empty desk reserved for him. He pushed through the front doors, ignored the few teachers who shouted in the distance, and looked up. Julian circled overhead and chirped. The teachers ran after Ezra and stumbled through the front doors in time to witness him climbing onto a vast bald eagle and flying off.

* * *

“You know what we need, Julian?”

A flat pebble skipped across the lake. After the sixth skip, it plummeted, the ripples spreading across the water like a kaleidoscope. Ezra sighed—only two pebbles left.

“We need to go on an adventure,” he said.

He craned his neck back. Julian sat beside him instead of in his usual tree. In fact, he was _far_ bigger than said tree. Or _any_ tree. Julian chirped and preened his feathers, staying close enough to keep Ezra company—a reminder he wasn’t alone.

He never would be.

At the mention of an adventure, Julian cocked his head, almost quizzical.

Ezra cracked a brief smile before considering his pebbles again. “You know, do something amazing. The kind they write books about. Papa keeps saying the best life experience is learning it first-hand… or something like that. I like the books. They’re fun, but… whenever I’m done reading, it’s like I’m stuck between where I was and where I am.” He glanced at Julian. “You know what I mean?”

Julian chirped and puffed up his chest feathers.

“I knew you would.” Ezra selected the oval-shaped pebble, hooked it within his fingers, and tossed it to the lake. Three skips until it sank. “It would be nifty if we did something worth a book or two. Except if I read those books, it wouldn’t feel like I’m reading about a dream. It would be real; it would be _my_ life. _Our_ lives.” With a deep sigh, he rolled the last pebble in his palms. “Guess they just don’t make books about people like us, Julian.”

Julian lowered his head and bumped into Ezra. He broke away from the pebble and the lake and his thoughts and scritched the feathers on Julian’s neck. Soft coos rolled through Julian. Ezra’s smile waned as a warm breeze shifted.

“Adventure or no adventure,” Ezra said, “life is worth living if I got you around.”

He chucked the pebble. It skittered across the lake, shattering the reflections of dusk’s remaining warmth. It skipped as far as Ezra could see. He liked to think it skipped across the whole world before returning. Maybe it would have grand stories to tell of the waters it traversed.

Maybe. Ezra and Julian were long gone by then.

* * *

Ezra anticipated dinner as he arrived home. No lights warmed the kitchen, let alone the scent of cornbread and bacon. He nearly slipped on the letter sitting on the floor by the front door, untouched after the mailman delivered it. Ezra picked up the envelope and placed it on the kitchen table for his parents along with the principal’s letter. He stole a box of vanilla wafers to munch on in his bedroom, passing some to Julian through the window.

Come morning, he rubbed his eyes opened and returned the half-eaten box to the cupboards. The letters still sat on the kitchen table while his mother made waffles and his father scoured the newspaper for a life that no longer existed.

He didn’t ask if he could stop going to school; he made that decision when his mother dropped him off two blocks from the building, then he jumped onto Julian to soar elsewhere. So long as he was back by dinnertime, his parents never asked, save for if his day went well.

And it had for some time. Instead of staying awake during lectures, Ezra took flight to the fields the books described. Farmers tended crops and construction workers repaired roads. Some caught sight of the two gliding overhead, Julian’s vast shadow sweeping over like a welcomed breeze. They waved and so did Ezra. He loved those days. He loved the endless world unfurling along the horizon, begging him to reach farther.

It all faded like morning mist when he returned at sundown. Letters continued to pile on the doormat. One night they caught in the frame and Ezra groaned as he forced the door open. His parents didn’t flinch at his return or the letters stuck in the mail slot. Sometimes the envelopes made it to the kitchen table. Most often they stayed on the welcome mat.

Leaves decayed and melded with the earth. Perhaps the letters would, too.

* * *

He thought it was about skipping classes. Maybe they found the handwritten note beneath the unopened letters and discovered what his principal wrote. Why else would his parents ask him to stop washing up for bed to come sit in the living room?

“It’s okay, Julian,” Ezra whispered through the tiny window in the bathroom. “I’ll be back.”

Through the plastic shutters, the silhouette of a gigantic bald eagle moved. Not a chirp left him, but they never needed words.

Ezra abandoned his toothbrush and shuffled to the living room. His mother sat on the edge of the sofa, head hanging in her hands. As for his father, he paced the small space until his eyes locked with Ezra. He braced himself for the worst—anger, perhaps, but even sadness was welcomed after countless nights of empty stares.

Something else swirled in his father’s expression.

He beckoned to Ezra with a tremble in his hand. Sitting beside his mother, Ezra glanced at them. She sniffled and he struggled to stand still.

Slumping in his seat, Ezra swallowed hard. Best to admit his trickeries before they squeezed it out of him. “Mama? Papa? I can—”

“We need to pack up, Ezra,” his father said, eyes set to the floor.

“Pack… up?” Ezra tilted his head. “But why?”

“We’re leaving,” his father added, but the words were dead before they left his lips.

To that, Ezra perked up. “Are we going somewhere? On an adventure?” He once overheard his classmates talk of grandiose summer trips to the other side of the country. They wore resort clothing showcasing vibrant illustrations and typography from each location—proof of their travels and tales. Ezra longed for a moment outside of the quiet country. Surely there was something beyond I-65 and—

“We can’t stay here anymore,” his mother said plainly.

Ezra blinked. His parents spoke—they _explained_. Words he couldn’t comprehend, even if his vocabulary books cited dozens of examples.

After what felt longer than a school day, Ezra licked his lips. “But why?”

His parents rattled off reasons, none of which sank into Ezra. It rolled off like water on leaves and petals.

One notion stayed, though. The building—their _home_ —wasn’t theirs anymore.

They weren’t welcomed.

“But where will we go?” he asked.

Or maybe he thought it, because his parents never answered.

* * *

Several years ago was a homework assignment. Not multiple-choice, not true or false; it was a written assignment, long-form and open-ended. At least a page long. And why. Always why. Why, why, _why_.

“If your house was on fire,” the teacher had asked, “what five items would you take with you before fleeing?”

Instead of fretting over chocolate milk and pizza lunches and who picked the next recess game and the following week’s storybook, students stressed over the limited possibilities. Which prized toy would they pick or was an entire toy bin considered a single item? Did their pets count? Or their older sibling’s video game or record collection? How long did they have to retrieve all the items before the smoke clogged their lungs and the foundations crumbled?

The following day, each student read their response out loud. The session warped into a secondary show-and-tell, where students showcased items based on material worth, all parading under the guise of sentimental value.

Ezra never read his; there was nothing _to_ read. It marked the first assignment he failed to accomplish, the first call to his parents to discuss his delinquency, and the first time he felt the weight of his peers’ eyes.

He didn’t know what to write down, then. Years later, standing in the door frame to his bedroom, he still didn’t know.

What he did know was the inauthenticity of the assignment. No one _really_ knew what they would grab in a burning building until the flames roared. Promises of saving photo albums and sentimental gifts and family heirlooms… they meant nothing. What good was a material possession in the wake of a disaster? No amount of captured memories healed the trauma of what one escaped.

The house wasn’t on fire, but his parents fussed down the hall, contemplating whether they could shove their untouched anniversary silverware into the bloated suitcases. An open bag sat on his bed. Clothing wadded inside because his mother insisted. Same with the toiletries in a plastic bag.

He could’ve skimmed the few books he owned or the second-hand figurines with missing limbs and faded paint. There was a forgotten stuffed animal under his bed and the plastic, glow-in-the-dark stars on the walls.

And he ignored it all, stared out the window, and found Julian.

* * *

“Mama, when is the bus coming?”

The streetlights flickered and bounced off the rain-slicked roads. Ezra eyed each puddle, longing to jump in them despite leaving his rain boots behind.

She sighed. “Ezra, honey, I don’t know.”

“It’s been like, five hours.”

“Forty-five minutes, at most,” she corrected him.

Ezra slumped from the window and joined his mother on the metal bench. “Why couldn’t we leave in the morning?”

“Because our time was up, honey.”

“But why?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just… hang tight until our ride comes, alright?”

He quirked his lips, swung his feet, and counted the raindrops cascading down the window. A vast shadow rolled across the exterior—no doubt Julian was as impatient as Ezra was with how he circled the sky.

“Mama,” he dragged out after what felt like another five hours, “can I go exploring outside?”

“Ezra—”

“I won’t go far! I promise! I just want to keep Julian company—”

“It’s _pouring_ outside. You’ll catch a fever.”

“I’ll be careful.”

After a bout of silence, she shook her head in defeat. “Fine, you can poke out for a bit—” She gradually raised her voice as Ezra bolted to the front door. “—and you better stay under the awning so I can see you!”

Her voice faded as he pushed the doors open. Rain thrummed in his ears. Sparse lights floated down the street; Julian perched on one of those posts despite his enormity. Ezra brushed his fingertips along the building until he reached the end of the awning. Julian perked up and tilted his head.

“Hey!” Ezra waved at him. “You want to explore the area before the bus comes?”

Julian’s feathers ruffled while he chirped. In a blink, he swooped down to meet Ezra, extending a wing to shield him from the rain.

“I was thinking we could check out the woods over there,” he explained. “They look mighty nifty, don’t you think? Not too far, though.” He glanced over his shoulder, a sweep distance between the edge of the forest and the bus station. “Maybe we can find something to bring back to Mama. Something to make her smile.”

It was simple as that—scout the perimeter, inspect the wildlife not native to his backyard, and return in time to board their bus to nowhere. Ezra hoped for a peculiar stick or stone as a worthy souvenir.

He glanced over his shoulder as they traversed newly made streams; the bus station window still glimmered between the trees. That was good enough, right? And between Julian’s extended wings and the trees’ branches, the rain didn’t bother him.

One item after another hooked Ezra from the arrowhead rocks to the circle of dead leaves and mushrooms to the perfect line of fallen trees acting as a bridge over the growing stream. Ezra balanced across the trunks and watched images of leaf-shaped boats float down the rapids. Spirits of rodents and insects navigated the waters, clinging to their belongings and searching for a new home. A distant melody hummed through the trees and Ezra smiled as the shadows bounced to life and sang of folk stories long forgotten by those who abandoned an older, simpler world. He sang along, made up words as he went, and skipped across moss and puddles. The animal voyagers squeaked and chirped, some waving to him.

Ezra closed his eyes and reveled in the treasures only the stormy night provided.

He thought he could reach the band of shadows. Perhaps thank them for providing a reason to smile. But the silhouettes shifted as Ezra walked by each tree, sometimes closer, other times miles away. And yet their song echoed in his ears all the same. Once they vanished, a glimmer caught Ezra’s eye. A small object lodged into the roots of a tree, slick with rain and mud. As Ezra retrieved it and smoothed a thumb over the surface, he grinned.

“Wow, it’s a guitar pick! We tried one out in music class last year. Oh, Mama will love this! Julian, what do you—”

Ezra turned to find his brother, to find the glow of the bus station, to find the broken tree trail he followed along the outskirts by the road.

None of it was there. He stood in the heart of a forest, in the night, in the pouring rain.

His eyes widened. “Julian?” Nothing. “Julian!”

Echoes bounced off the trees. He ran aimlessly, the land shifting entirely with each tree he passed. Through the branches, he swore he saw the bus station. Then he didn’t. Then another town. Then nothing.

Another time he might have enjoyed the forest’s glamor. Cherished it, even.

“Julian, where are you?!” he cried out over the rain.

A deeper shadow washed over him. Ezra jerked his head and blinked through the rain. Julian’s whistle rippled in the trees overhead; against the storm clouds, Ezra found the outline of a soaring eagle.

“Down here!” he yelled with every fiber in his being. He flailed and jumped, finally breathing once Julian tucked in his wings and swooped down. “Come on, we need to get to the bus station. We can’t miss our ride!” He climbed up Julian. “It’s got to be somewhere, right? Just look for the lights.”

With a final chirp, Julian beat his wings. The earth shrank away, then the forest. Soaring past treetops, Ezra squinted through the storm for the smattering of streetlights, only to find a sprawling forest stretching past the horizon.

A flicker of light garnered his attention. He gasped and pointed. “Look! Down there!”

Julian banked hard and circled closer to the faint glow in question. In their descent, the details sharpened; what was a smudge of color against the night transformed into the bus station. Ezra grinned and hugged Julian.

“I knew you could do it,” he murmured.

Julian extended a wing as they landed and Ezra slid down and sprinted. Dirt gave way to asphalt. The hum of fluorescent and neon lights overpowered the rain. Ezra yanked the door open and turned to the bench, where his mother sat.

Their luggage slumped there: his faded blue suitcase and matching backpack, his mother’s purse and black canvas suitcase, and his father’s briefcase and messenger bag. All huddled together by the empty bench.

Ezra froze.

Maybe she was in the bathroom. Or grabbing snacks at the vending machine. Or using the payphone. Or checking on his father.

But his father wasn’t by the information desk. Or flipping through the tourist brochures. Or double-checking their tickets in his wallet. Or reading a newspaper.

Ezra thought to ask one of the station workers for help. Maybe the bus already came, but the departures didn’t list their route. Maybe they left without him, but no one blinked at the descriptions he gave.

Maybe they’d come back, knowing they forgot their luggage and sons.

Ezra sat on the bench, flipping the guitar pick between his fingers. The lights died with the storm, in time. Someone asked if he had somewhere to go.

The true question between those words didn’t register. What they wanted to know was if he had a friend or relative to stay with. What he ended up saying was yes, he had somewhere to go, because there was an entire world he needed to explore.

He recalled the story his mother told him—of the baby bird who lost his way and the adventure he experienced. As he clung to Julian again and took flight, he told him that story.

“You’re not supposed to touch baby birds that fall from the nest,” Ezra whispered into Julian’s feathers. “The mama and papa bird might not recognize them or welcome them home.”


	3. Chapter 3

The blue haze of twilight washed over the world: the sky, the trees, the empty roads, the sleepy buildings, everything. It seeped into the signage plastered over the front door to the place he could no longer call home. It reflected off the window he pried open and slipped through. The boxes of cookies and crackers he binged, the blankets he wrapped up in, the carpet his mother ranted about burning in hopes to replace it.

In his heart as he sat on the front steps with Julian, eyes to the road.

A diesel engine rumbled into earshot, but it was the headlights which startled Ezra. Tinged with yellow, the lights blinded him. Once he rubbed the stars out of his eyes, he found new warmth painted in the world: the rosy hues of dawn, the bright red of the truck pulling into the driveway, the porch light flickering, the faded orange shoes he wore with untied laces and broken soles.

Someone jumped out of the driver's side. A few others emerged from the back. They lined up, varying in size, shape, and facial hair. Each one sized up the house, but it was the driver who acknowledged Ezra.

“What are you doing here, kid?” he asked, more concerned than annoyed.

Ezra hugged his knees to his chest. “Me and my brother live here.”

Julian chirped for emphasis.

The driver’s gaze drifted to Julian, then sighed. “Can’t stay here anymore.”

“I’m waiting for my parents.” The man didn’t respond as he returned to the driver’s seat to fish out something. “I don’t know where they are.”

“Wish I could help.”

“Why not?”

“Not my department.” He returned with a clipboard and pen, licking his finger before flipping several pages. As he reached the desired location, he hummed, clicked his pen, and scribbled. “You Ezra?”

“Yes, sir.”

The driver jerked his chin at Julian. “The bird with you?”

“He’s a bald eagle. And he’s Julian, my brother.”

Ezra dug his nails into his shorts and tensed. The driver never provided additional commentary, save for a nod.

More scribbles. More sighs, too.

“Alright, Ezra,” he said, tucking the clipboard under his arm, “we’re on the clock and got to get this here house over to the Museum of Dwellings by lunchtime. Procedures say all items attached to the house must be moved as is, including people.”

Ezra scrunched up his face. “But Mama and Papa said we had to leave, because it wasn’t ours anymore. Do you mean we could’ve stayed and gone with the house?”

The driver quirked his lips and shrugged his shoulders. “More or less. Most people do. Got nowhere else to go, so might as well go to the museum. Better than nothing, if you ask me, but I got to move it regardless.”

Red hot anger flashed in Ezra. Why hadn’t his parents mentioned this? They could’ve stayed in their home and be taken elsewhere instead of meandering into the night on a bus. The sentiment died as abruptly as it flared in his veins. Maybe they found a new home, much like the new clothes Ezra received on his birthday. To outgrow a home… was it possible?

“So what do you say, kid?” the driver asked. “You tagging along to the museum?”

“Will I find my parents there?”

“Can’t say. I’m sure they’re looking for you.”

Maybe. Hopefully.

Ezra rose from the front steps. “Can Julian come, too?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know. My Mama got upset when I asked if he could tag along for grocery shopping.”

“Course he’s coming. He’s your brother, ain’t he? That falls under building items.”

Ezra nodded, shuffled his feet, then drew in a breath. “Um… can I ride shotgun?”

The driver cracked a smile. “Hell, why not?”

* * *

Music from before Ezra’s time, perhaps even his parents’, crackled through the speakers. Sometimes a different voice boomed over the melody and the driver picked up the microphone to answer. Ezra caught fragments of the conversation: construction blocking the road to I-65, a cancellation in an afternoon pickup, and bets on the upcoming college football season. Nothing but background noise, just like the wind and the engine and his thoughts.

Ezra counted the telephone poles zipping by, traced the curves of distant hills that appeared miles away and in arm’s reach, and marveled at the world outside of his neighborhood. He waved to road workers sitting on the grass and enjoying lunch, wondering if it was the same crew who always waved to him and Julian. He peered in the rear mirror to catch Julian’s reflection as he perched on top of the house in the back.

_Almost there_ , he thought a dozen times.

The sun sat high in the sky when they arrived. The driver opened the door for Ezra before joining his team to ease the house off the truck. Julian joined Ezra on the curb; together they regarded the enormous framework claiming to be a museum.

“Do I get to pick a spot?” Ezra asked while the movers struggled to maneuver the house through the door.

The driver sighed and rubbed his eyes. “What did I tell you? Need to turn it on its side and hook it around or it’s never coming through. And careful with that back door just flying open like—”

“Excuse me?” Ezra tugged on the hem of his jacket. “Sir?”

He turned to Ezra, eyebrow raised, yet eyes flicking back to the teetering house. “Something the matter, kid?”

“Can I pick a spot for it?”

“No can do.” Sliding his clipboard from under his arm, he tapped the back of his fingers on the papers. “A spot is already reserved. Need to follow protocol.”

Ezra glanced at the black ink comprising the page, neatly printed in every possible inch of white space. All adult words people used to pretend they meant something. Maybe somewhere it mentioned the whereabouts of his parents or why they didn’t agree to stay with the house.

He found little sense in that paper and less in the museum itself. More than houses filled the space; boats and trailers and even greenhouses occupied the interior. A plaque stood by each one, detailing the original location and purpose of removal. More adult words, more concepts Ezra didn’t have the patience to stomach.

The only similarity linking each building he passed was the blank faces of those within their establishment. From the windows, the front doors, the stoops—all the same face. Once his house settled into its assigned lot, Ezra recognized the expression. Remembered it, even.

His father wore it since the previous year, before the holidays rolled in, up until they arrived at the bus station.

“What do we do now?” Ezra asked the driver as he and his team left.

He shrugged, barely eyeing Ezra. “Up to you, I guess. Perhaps do what everyone else does around here.”

Ezra held his tongue despite the instinct to question; he didn’t _want_ to know.

As the truck rumbled out of the parking lot and silence settled into the walls, Ezra took it upon himself to climb the building, up to the unfinished roof and faded _under construction_ signs, and pretended to fly with Julian until dusk. And he donned a smile—anything to fill the emptiness.

* * *

“Do you like being here?” Ezra asked every resident of the Museum of Dwellings.

Most didn’t answer; adults always had more important matters to tend to than humor a child’s whimsy. Half of those people avoided eye contact with Ezra, as if his gaze pained them. The others shrugged. It wasn’t so bad, the museum. The cabinets in each building replenished every morning, negating trips to grocery stores and strip malls.

“Nice not to have to worry,” a wrinkled lady said while knitting on a squeaky rocking chair. “You’ll get older one day and wish someone could take care of you.”

He never thought of that concept until then. What did it even _mean_ to have someone take care of him? The shelves magically restocked, sure, but never with any new items. Always the same boxes from years ago and back then they were already outdated. Ezra liked to imagine being taken care of meant more than ensuring one’s survival.

He thought of that a lot when he tucked himself in at night in an empty house.

* * *

In a week, Ezra memorized the names and faces of everyone residing in the museum.

He tried to memorize their stories, none of which fit neatly on the tiny plaques assigned to each home.

But he couldn’t. And neither could the others.

By the end of that first week, an old fishing boat in the back vanished. Even the plaque.

“Where’d it go?” Ezra asked.

It wasn’t that no one answered; it was that no one remembered it ever being there.

“Sometimes you just forget,” a single mother with four kids told Ezra. “And so does the world. That’s how it is.”

“But why?” Ezra insisted.

She laughed, the sound bitter and painful. “You’ll find out when you grow up, kid.”

Except he didn’t want to grow up. Not if it meant abandoning all that he cherished.

“I won’t forget,” Ezra whispered into Julian before bedtime, hugging his feathered body with all his might. “I promise. You’ll see.”

* * *

A pair of cars rolled into the parking lot. Not a speck of rust lined the polished exteriors. Ezra scouted the roads from the open roof in search of a truck pulling behind a house for the new arrivals, but he found nothing. People exited the vehicles, dressed in clean clothes, almost fashioned like the popular kids from school. They smiled and chatted together while strolling into the museum. One unfolded a map while another took out a smartphone to hold up at every other home.

Ezra dangled his legs from the rafters next to Julian. They watched over the folk ambling through the museum, reading every plaque, examining every exterior, ignoring every soul still living there. They paused at his home and peeked through the windows. Maybe they were hungry and wanted a snack. Ezra contemplated jumping down to greet them, only to have the group shrug at one another and move on.

They stayed for an hour before returning to their cars and driving off. Ezra took flight with Julian by then and soared along the road the visitors traveled.

He found out-of-state license plates. He found the fancy restaurant they stopped at and the even fancier hotel they pulled up to by dusk. Ezra almost jumped from Julian’s back to ask who they were and where they were from and why they didn’t stay at the museum longer.

But Julian climbed further into the skies and guided them elsewhere. They soared through the clouds and over the magical forest they discovered by the bus station and finally landed on a telephone pole.

Ezra didn’t recognize the area, at first. Countless lights flooded the streets. A wall of sound lived below them in the pedestrians and moving cars. As Ezra’s eyes adjusted, he drank in the colorful array of buildings. Something rustic, yet polished. Every other block showcased another cafe, another boutique, another gallery. The people below looked no different from the visitors at the museum. They reminded Ezra of dolls with manufactured faces.

It was a tree that caught his attention. He scaled it at the age of five. His mother panicked and his father had to persuade him to climb down. Apples hung high in those branches and Ezra wanted to pick some for his mother—for an apple pie she couldn’t afford at the store.

The tree stood down the street from his house. Now it stood between a burger joint and a purse shop, the only speck of nature against concrete and bricks.

He didn’t remember returning to the museum. Julian nuzzled him once they perched on the roof again. Ezra clung to his beak and buried his face into Julian’s.

They slept on the roof together, unsure of what to call home anymore, save for each other.

* * *

What did Ezra remember?

He remembered a massive house with multiple rooms he lost himself in every day. He remembered the fridge stuffed with goodies and eating whenever he pleased. He remembered toys lining his shelves over his bed and his room lighting up like the night sky before he drifted to sleep. He remembered chalk on the driveway and sprinklers in July and running outside to catch fireflies.

He remembered his mother’s warm smile and his father’s scratchy beard. He remembered bedtime stories and games of hide-and-seek and Friday movie nights with takeout food. He remembered helping his mother space out cookie dough on a baking sheet and grabbing the right tools for his father while fixing the car. He remembered laughter and hugs and promises of nothing but that.

Ezra stood in front of the decrepit shack claiming to be his home the following morning. His parents still weren’t inside—or outside. He couldn’t bring himself to open the front door, even for a box of sugary cereal.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” the lady next door asked at lunchtime. “Something on your mind?”

Ezra stared at the floor between his sneakers and the building. He flexed his fingers and swallowed hard.

“Do you like it here?” Ezra asked.

“Didn’t you already ask that before?”

And he had. But that was then and she hadn’t humored him with a response.

When Ezra didn’t answer, she sighed. “Do _you_ like it here?”

He lifted his head to meet her stare. “No. I don’t think anyone does.”

“Nothing we can do about that, now can we? This is how life has to be.”

“No it doesn’t. We can do something.”

She tilted her head and scoffed. “What, you got an idea?”

“I always have ideas. I just liked _this_ one the most.”

* * *

Most contorted their faces after Ezra explained. Whispers flowed amongst them and overpowered the cicadas. They leaned back in their seats, arms crossed and chins lifted. Defiance at its best.

As if their stubborn wits shielded them from the harsh world.

Ezra released a shaky breath. “Alright, well, if anyone _does_ like the idea, Julian and I don’t mind—”

“What if someone catches us?” a man demanded.

“They won’t,” Ezra said. “Who has ever come here after sundown?”

The silence was enough of an answer.

“I know it might seem scary with the heights and all, but Julian wouldn’t let anyone fall and trust me, this place is _really_ cool and… I thought it would be nicer than here every night forever. What people don’t know won’t hurt them. And I think we deserve something nice, just for us.”

After the initial resistance, Ezra didn’t expect anyone to meet him on the roof that night. Instead, five families lined up, each kindly asking him for a trip out to the woods to the east.

“Just for the night,” they all echoed. “Like you said. Something nice.”

Ezra didn’t sleep until sunrise, after helping Julian move two trailers, a loft apartment, a minivan, and a daycare. All round trip, as promised.

Once he woke at noon, the people he helped smiled for the first time since he arrived.

* * *

It was nice—having a purpose. Instead of setting the table or putting dirty laundry in the hamper, Ezra moved homes from the Museum of Dwellings to the forest and back again. He slept through most mornings after a night of ferrying buildings with Julian. Those asking to be moved doubled every night since their first trip. After a month, the Museum of Dwellings was empty by midnight.

The people slept better in the woods than they ever had their whole lives, or so they claimed. Sleep was good. Sleep meant dreams of a better life.

Ezra couldn’t remember the last time he dreamed. He was too busy scouting the land between trips, hoping to find something familiar from up high. Even Julian found nothing.

“They’re out there somewhere,” Ezra kept reassuring him at sunrise. “They’re waiting for us and boy, will we have stories to tell them!”

Maybe they needed more adventures, though; that baby bird didn’t stumble upon his parents by sitting in one place. Ezra also thought of the smiling faces despite their homes locked up for tourists to view. Would they still smile if he left?

He considered taking everyone with him. Julian cocked his head when Ezra voiced the idea.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ezra said while slumping. “I know it’s not easy for you.” He paused. “Not easy for any of us.”

* * *

“You don’t need to worry about me, Ezra.”

“But Dr. Truman—” Ezra jumped down from Julian’s back to meet the older man halfway. “—the sun’s coming up any minute now. We need to be back before the doors open.”

Fastening homes to Julian’s feet was no simple or quick task; the more time they spent chit-chatting, the more they wasted. But Dr. Truman didn’t flinch; he sat on the front steps of his house and gazed at the shifting branches, never in the same place twice.

“I know,” he told Ezra. “That’s why you should head on out now.”

“But—”

“I don’t plan on going back.”

Ezra’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

A hint of a smile emerged on his face. “I like it here. Might as well settle in and make the most of it.”

“They’ll forget you,” Ezra tried to reason. “What if someone comes looking for you and everything is gone?” He clenched his fists, unaware of how they trembled by his sides. “You shouldn’t fade away.”

“I won’t.”

“But… how do you know?”

He breathed out a chuckle. “There’s nothing wrong with fading away. We all do at some point. Those who forget us? Well, maybe they’re not worth fussing over. Would you want someone to keep remembering you if they couldn’t be bothered to do so in the first place?”

“I guess not.”

Dr. Truman nodded. “I got my wits about me still. Sometimes you can be your own best company.”

Ezra cracked a smile. His fingers uncurled and relaxed.

“Besides,” Dr. Truman continued, tilting his head back to eye the treetops, or where he believed them to be, “this forest is alive. I have a feeling it won’t forget me. Or any of us. Particularly you.”

“ _Me_? But why?”

“I think you know why. You have more power than you give yourself credit.” Leveling his head, Dr. Truman looked past Ezra to Julian and the remaining buildings strapped to his feet. “Go on, now. Head out. I’ll be alright.”

Ezra waved and said his goodbyes. Julian chirped and fluffed his feathers before lifting off. The words they exchanged echoed in Ezra’s thoughts. Before settling in to sleep, Ezra wondered what would happen if more of them left. If one by one, people vacated the museum and never returned.

If he and Julian flew off and continued their search elsewhere, instead of waiting for fate to arrive on their doorstep.

In a sense, it did so, anyways. Eventually. Not in the form of his parents, but as an antique truck driver, his aging dog, and a TV repairwoman. They asked for Dr. Truman and Ezra remembered him with glee.

And when he offered them a ride to the depths of the forest, Ezra didn’t bother looking back.


	4. Chapter 4

Maybe if he knew about the **Zero** beforehand, he might have gone there first.

The directions made sense, despite Conway missing the exits and Shannon insisting it was another radio station. Ezra stayed in the back, counting the horses in the shadows they drove. Sometimes they popped out, long enough to get their bearings and press on. Ezra asked Johnny one time if he could ride with him in the motorcycle’s sidecar. Junebug snorted and asked if they could take a ride on Julian.

“Of course!” Ezra said. “Well, maybe not now. When this is all over.”

Johnny slumped. “Why not?”

“That big bird can’t fit in the **Zero** , cricket,” Junebug said. “Wouldn’t be right for him to be cramped. Birds need to spread their wings.”

“But he can follow us, right?” He eyed Ezra when Junebug shrugged. “Right?”

Ezra tilted his head. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Well, he’d need to follow the **Zero** somewhere from outside. Is that… even possible?”

Ezra parted his lips to answer, but Shannon’s voice overpowered the silence as she rallied everyone together. Time to depart. Another voyage to somewhere unknown.

* * *

He thought of Julian.

How he would enjoy the intricate caves. How he would keep Ezra company while waiting in the graveyard. How he would fly alongside the ferry floating down the Echo River.

Every recording brought memories of their adventures together, the ones seemingly in other worlds, yet down the street from home. He forgot what that was supposed to mean—home. Teachers had said it was a building, but as he wandered the ferry’s cabin and various isles and docks, Ezra found people attached to things beyond physical structures. They settled into ideas and concepts, most discarded from the modern world to make way from something new and shiny. Better, even.

But Ezra was content with the old tape recorder in his clutches and the antique van in need of a tire rotation and the squeaks in his makeshift bed and the smell of simmering mushrooms. His parents were never there, in those nooks he scouted. Maybe they’d like the oddities he grew fond of.

He couldn’t ask if they did. Not now or ever. The difference was he didn’t need to with Julian; he already knew.

Maybe that’s what home meant.

* * *

Ezra found Shannon crying in a closet after she returned without Conway. He brought the old dog over; maybe petting the wrinkled fur would soothe her.

“Sometimes I stroke Julian’s feathers when I feel sad,” he murmured, curled up on the floor a sweep distance from her.

She coughed up bitter amusement. “Well, Julian’s not here.”

“He can’t fit on the boat,” Ezra reasoned. When she didn’t reply, he continued. “I think he wouldn’t mind if you pet him. I can ask him when we’re done.”

“That’s sweet, Ezra, but I’m alright.”

“You sure?”

No answer.

“Why are you crying?” Ezra asked gently.

“I’m not sure,” she eventually said, her voice trembling. “I shouldn’t be.”

“Why?”

“I barely knew him.”

“So?”

More silence.

Ezra fiddled with the tape recorder, though never recorded a sound. He leaned into the creaking wall while Conway’s hound used his lap as a pillow. The tears subsided and Shannon rose to her feet. She loomed over Ezra and he stared at the gaps in the wood panels, as if every unanswered question existed there.

She patted his head, much like how he patted the dog’s head. When she left, Ezra stayed and listened to the water carry them elsewhere. He thought of the people he met and those who stayed and those who didn’t and if anyone ever cried for the ghosts of who he used to be.

* * *

Ezra spotted the staircase first. He laughed and cheered, glad to provide his keen eyesight to the group, but no one else joined in his glee. One by one, they exited the ferry and onto the patch of concrete at the base of the steps. Some scratched their heads, others crossed their arms and tensed. Ezra looked back and forth at the blank faces.

They were here. They made it. What was the hold up?

“We can’t take the truck up there.”

“Might as well unpack it and carry everything.”

“Geez, really? That’s going to take several trips. Have you _seen_ what’s back there?”

“What other choice do we have?”

“We’re past the point of no return.”

“Have been for a while, cricket.”

The adults continued their intermittent chatter as Ezra volunteered to go first. Time on the ferry stored pent-up energy; racing up and down the stairs to drop off various deliveries sounded excellent.

He clung a small CRT TV to his chest while scaling the spiraling steps. The others lingered, their voices bouncing off the walls the higher Ezra ascended.

“It’s not too bad!” Ezra called back, unconcerned if anyone heard him. “It’s kind of nice to stretch out my legs again. Not wobbly on these steps. I can’t wait to run around outside and—”

The scent struck him first. He paused. The grin he wore faded to a flat line.

Holding his breath, Ezra scaled the remaining flights of stairs. Warm sunlight crept across the opening above. The rustle of leaves dancing in the wind trickled into earshot. Ezra poked his head out before the final steps. Again he paused.

The flooded land stretched to the horizon. The few townspeople awake— _alive_ —stood on the outskirts and stared at their reflections. No one paid attention to Ezra as he surfaced.

He remembered to breathe, even if it meant smelling the freshly fallen rain after a storm.

* * *

“I think I’m going to keep him.”

Ezra sat on a broken wooden fence while Johnny flicked a blade of grass at the curious black cat that had been following them for some time. Whispers of a burial drifted in the air. Between the shade of the buildings and passing clouds, echoes of spirits ebbed and flowed. Ezra tried to wave to them, but they stared through him, perhaps longingly.

“Really?” Ezra asked.

Johnny’s smile faltered. “Yeah. I’d like to. I guess it depends if Junebug’s okay with it.”

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

“Depends when you ask her. It changes every time. She might be worried I’ll adopt too many and they won’t be able to fit on the motorcycle.”

“Julian and I moved all those houses at the museum every night. I’m sure you can figure something out.”

“Here’s hoping.”

“You’d need to make sure all of them had helmets, too.”

Johnny chuckled. “Of course!”

Ezra slid off his perch to kneel beside the cat and pet his plush fur. “So does that mean you’re leaving?”

“I don’t think Junebug is keen on doing donuts in the yard to get our wanderlust fix, so back to the road for us.”

“Where are you going?”

“Who knows. Anywhere with a decent bar and an empty stage in a hundred-mile radius, that’s for sure.”

“Can you bring animals into bars?”

“Not usually, but maybe they can make an exception.”

“That way you can keep an eye on the kitty.”

“Exactly!”

“What’s this about a cat?”

Both Johnny and Ezra turned their attention to Junebug. She leaned into the fence, arms crossed loosely. Ezra liked the new attire she donned for exploring Dogwood Drive. Maybe one day he could pull off a leather jacket and torn jeans like her.

“This one right here.” Johnny scooped the black cat into his arms. “We can keep him, right?”

Junebug didn’t blink. “How many times do we need to go over the animal bit?”

“We can’t just leave him here. He doesn’t have a home.”

“No one does, cricket.”

“Which is why we should give him a home. Or at least let him stick around long enough until we find a suitable family to take him in.”

Junebug sighed. “Can’t he fend for himself out here? That’s what animals are supposed to do, right?”

“Well,” Ezra drew out, neither gentle nor harsh, “domesticated animals tend to have a hard time adjusting to the wild. They don’t always survive. If you were used to someone feeding you all the time and then you had to hunt your own food, would you be able to adapt?”

“Nah, I guess not,” she replied, rather quickly, much to Ezra’s surprise. She stood straight, then gestured to Johnny. “Alright, the kitty can hitch a ride—”

“Yes!” Johnny jumped to his feet with a grin. “He’s going to be a great addition to our—”

“ _And_ you have to make sure you take care of him. If I have to remind you to feed it even once—”

“Hey, not to worry! I got this!” He scratched the cat under his chin. “Isn’t that right? You’re going to have the best home ever. And you can sit in my lap when we hit the road and—”

“Speaking of additions.”

Junebug pivoted to face Ezra. Johnny continued to fawn over his newly adopted cat, though broke from the trance once Junebug cleared her throat. His eyes followed hers to Ezra and he, too, stood straighter beside his partner-in-crime.

“We’ve been meaning to ask you,” Junebug began, as gentle as the passing wind, “and I wasn’t sure when the right time was. Guess there never is one.”

She chuckled. Johnny joined out of habit. Ezra simply stared.

“Everyone’s packing up and heading elsewhere,” Junebug continued. “Shannon mentioned your home was back at the Museum of Dwellings. But some tourist trap isn’t a home. You don’t need to be chained to it just because.”

“I know,” Ezra agreed.

A crooked smile formed on her lips. “You ever gone cross-country before?”

“Um… I don’t know. Maybe?”

Her smile widened, yet softened. “What do you say to tagging along with us? A fresh start… can’t go wrong with that.”

“We can stop by all the petting zoos,” Johnny offered while the cat purred and nuzzled against his chin, “and fast food places. Think of all the sounds we could record along the way. Pretty neat, huh? It’ll be like a family.”

Whatever interest swelled in Ezra instantly deflated.

“Thanks for the offer,” he said, “but I don’t think I can.”

Johnny nearly fell to his knees. “Why not?”

“Hey, it’s alright, cricket. Kid’s got to make his own decisions. I can respect that.”

Johnny pouted. “Are you sure, Ezra?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I need to find my parents. They’re looking for me and Julian. They _have_ to be.”

“How do you know you’ll find them? They could be gone forever, just like—” He held his tongue the second Junebug shot him a narrow glare.

“I just do,” Ezra said. “My Mama? She told me a story once, about a baby bird who got lost. He went on an adventure and when it was over, his parents found him.”

“That’s what we’re about to go on: an adventure! Who’s to say you won’t find them at the end of our road trip?”

Ezra averted his gaze. “That’s the thing. I can’t go with you two and say we’re family. My Mama and Papa won’t recognize me if I do that and they won’t welcome me back.”

Junebug gawked. “I’m sorry, they _what_ now?”

“It’s a bird thing,” Johnny explained.

“If you say so.”

“But Ezra, how are you going to find them on your own?”

“I won’t be alone,” Ezra corrected him. “I’ve got Julian.”

Both Junebug and Johnny exchanged looks. Johnny shook his head and Junebug released an exasperated sigh.

“Kid,” she said, “Julian hasn’t been around for a while.”

“He couldn’t come on the **Zero** , remember?” Johnny added.

“And the Echo River was a one-way street. Not even really sure how to get back to that neck of the woods from here. Or if you even _can_.”

“Are you going to go looking for Julian, too?”

Ezra squinted at them. “What do you mean go looking for him?”

“Uh… you know, figure out where he is? That’s why we offered you a lift to begin with. He’s not around anymore to—”

“But Julian never went anywhere.”

As Ezra stood to his feet, Junebug and Johnny gazed at the long shadow he cast behind him. It never occurred to Ezra to inspect his shadow for any reason, let alone in recent times. He was oblivious to the shifts it made when he thought of his brother or how it resembled an eagle more than a human.

It extended and tripled in size. Wings extended and tore away from Ezra’s silhouette. The vast shape blocked the sun temporarily. A distinct whistle filled the skies and massive wings beat against the currents to land.

“Julian’s right here,” Ezra said as his brother perched behind him. “He always has, because I believe he is. And that’s enough.”

It was. It _always_ was. Junebug and Johnny didn’t question that.

* * *

“If you ever change your mind, kid—” Junebug extended an arm to Ezra, holding a business card. “—just hit us up.”

Ezra turned the rectangular card stock in his hands. No contact information—just _Junebug & Johnny: Mechanical Musical Extraordinaires._

“How will I know how to get a hold of you?” he asked while climbing onto Julian’s back.

“You will,” Johnny called over the motorcycle’s engine, petting his cat in the sidecar. “Just like you always have.”

Junebug nodded. “Damn straight. Don’t forget that, because won’t, either. But whatever happens, know you’ve always got a spot with us. Family or otherwise.”

“Hey, and good luck, Ezra! I hope you find what you’re looking for!”

He smiled and waved while mounted on Julian. The duo drove down a dirt path while Julian took flight. Nothing but a silver blur raced beneath them. Until it was nothing.

* * *

He didn’t consider Johnny’s words. Not until he and Julian scoured the earth and found nothing.

By then, he wasn’t a child anymore. Not a grown-up, either. Whatever that meant.

It wasn’t that he needed his parents. He didn’t know _what_ he needed, truth be told.

Ezra realized what he was looking for as he and Julian came to a dive bar in Santa Monica, bathed in neon and chrome, and found Junebug and Johnny performing center stage.

Home didn’t need to be a place or bound by blood. Sometimes it was laughter in shared drinks or the quiet, city lull caught in the witching hours and salt-stained air or a long drive—and flight—on an open road. Sometimes it was found, never lost to begin with.

Sometimes that was enough.


End file.
